Not that itmatters,Eleanor. He is yourboss.
“Frankie,” he responds with a huge smile.
“Oh? Frankie, huh?” I say through my teeth.
“Yes! She is my life-giver.”
“What’s she like?” Please don’t tell me.
“She’s a homebody. Not big on people. Has some health issues, but we manage. And she’s hilarious!” he says in one breath, like he couldn’t tell me about her quick enough.
“She sounds . . . lovely . . .”
I hate her.
Why did I care? Benny Divata is my boss. He’s off limits—thanks to some school policy or something absurd last I heard. And I won’t be here long anyway.
There are so many clear reasons why he and I won’t be a thing, so why let myself feel even an inkling of intrigue for someone who is a “no” from the start? I know the rules and am an avid rule follower. But there was something about this guy that was drawing me in little by little.
Spend time around someone as attractive as Benny, and you’re bound to feel something. Hot people have that effect, even when they don’t intend to. Now when theyknowthey’re hot and use it for evil, those feelings are bound for destruction.
But Benny doesn’t use his looks for evil. I mean, there is no way he doesn’t know how handsome he is, but you can tell he doesn’t play into it for his own personal gain. He's a babe magnet in all aspects.
Even right now, as he laughs uncontrollably about the hilarity of this "Frankie" girl. His mouth is open as wide as possible, shoulders shaking, his hands on his hips to steady himself. It’s a charming sight that I could watch for hours.
But why was he laughing so hard? Was Frankiethatfunny?
He kept laughing as he crossed the street. I watched as he jogged the last few steps, his back muscles flexing through his shirt as he runs his fingers through his hair and reaches for the door. He waves at me to follow him as he walks into the pet daycare.
I cross the street and get to the door, seeing, through the window, complete and utter chaos.
From afar, I expected this charming little shop would house a quiet group of sleeping cats like the one I saw in the window. Unfortunately that cat isn’t even real, it’s a statue, in memorandum to Mr. Lebron Fluffy James. And he is nowhere near a clear representation of what I see happening inside right now.
Pulling open the door and stepping inside, I see no less than a dozen cats chasing after each other, running across the floor, climbing up the registration counter, and jumping on top of the kid hiding behind said counter. He was crying and yelling on his cell phone, “Come get me! This isn’t worth it!” I close the door behind me and stay pressed up against it, keeping as much distance between me and the mayhem as possible.
Benny runs over to him. “What happened? Where’s Frankie?” He's looking around frantically.Does Frankie work here?
The cats finally notice me and all come running after me—meowing and pawing at my legs. I try to gently shoo them away with my foot but it’s no use. I’mcornered.Even after gently tossing a gangly brown one to the side, he comes scurrying back. One is weaving in and out of my legs, brushing up against me. Another is rolling around in front of me as if to show me how agile it is. They start to lick my legs, literal sandpaper tongues all over my shins. No amount of shooing and hissing I do gets them to stop—it just spurs them on.
They have me trapped against the door. I could make a run for it, but then I’d be the numbskull who let a herd of cats out into the street.
A rather large reddish orange one, who seemed to be the leader of the pack based on how it was perched on the counter, was staring at me. Not blinking, just . . .staring. Watching as I squirmed and his little minions kept me surrounded. Any movement and they swarmed me even more, brushing, pawing,lickingme—Big Red watching the entire time.
This is my nightmare.
“What is going on?” I yell over the feline orchestra at my feet.
“They got out, I don’t know how! And I’m allergic! I can’t touch them!” The kid behind the counter was sobbing as he cowered as far from the cats as he could manage.
Why would he work here? I resist the urge to psychoanalyze and table the thought.
“Where is Frankie?” Benny was scooping up cat after cat and carrying them through a door behind the counter. He seemed nervous and a little agitated, but was roping the cats up with ease.
“She’s supposed to be in the back!” The kid screamed through his tears.
Benny scooped up the rest of the cats at my feet and looked at me. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, just . . . you know . . . didn’t expect to be a feline’s snack today.” The cats in his arms look at me with beady eyes.
